The pub hummed of a Friday night crowd. A thickset smell of beer and fried seafood hung in the air saturating my sundress. Looming above the mirrored wall of liquor bottles were big-screen televisions that boomed sports and the evening news. I recognized him right away. Across from the bar he sat patiently, aligned neatly in a row of bar-style tables.

Jack’s email had suggested we meet here – a venue he frequented on the Upper West Side. It was located a block from his apartment and a few more from the subway that could bring me home. A “win-win situation for a first date,” he reasoned. I agreed.

“It looks beautiful on you,” his smooth voice commented midway through dinner.

It was then that I realized Jack was studying me as I ate my fish fry. His deep-set eyes, lustrous as bistre bathed by an artist’s brush, glowed from the tealight candle that danced between us.

“Thanks,” I replied while clumsily setting down my fork. “It was really nice of you.”

“A beautiful gift for a beautiful woman.” He winked at me. A swell of heat flushed my cheeks and I looked down to hide my uneasy smile.

I sipped my Happy Hour cabernet, but didn’t taste it. Eddies of my thirst were instead centered upon the man across from me. The gift had been unexpected, especially from someone – attractive and several years my junior – whom I met online.

Over the past few months, age had never been a topic of our evening telephone conversations. He knew that I had been married and recently divorced. But I never admitted to my apprehension about the tiny cracks that had begun to splinter at the corner of my eyes, or creases that lingered long after I stopped laughing.

I never admitted to the younger woman and the fear I felt that my age had been the reason he left for her.

As if he sensed my thoughts, Jack brushed my blushing cheek with the back of his cool hand. “Your ex-husband didn’t know what he had,” he cooed. “I do.”

The waiter cleared our dishes.

“Will you excuse me a moment,” Jack said while standing up. He draped his napkin over the top of his chair and walked toward the men’s room. My face followed his back, sick with anxiety and desire. I ran my finger around the rim of my goblet and bit my smirking lip.

To divert my anxiety, I listened to the televisions.

A female reporter’s grieved voice caught my attention. The information came in waves: a body found in the Hudson; the third 40-something woman this month; police have no leads.

“That’s the lady we found this morning.” I glanced over at the table next to me. A bulky man hovered above his plate as he whispered to a pretty blonde. She turned around to look at the screen.

“It’s a bad case,” he went on. “No prints. No hair. Nothing left on these women for us to work with.”

His companion faced him again and mumbled something too low for me to hear.

“All I know is this guy is playing some sort of game with us,” he answered. He scooped a pile of food off his plate and shoved it into his mouth.

“Whaddaya mean?” Her voice was low, yet captivated.

“Well, it hasn’t been leaked to these idiots yet,” he replied pointing to the television with his cleaned fork. “But there is one thing the guy leaves on them…a souvenir of sorts.”

“Souvenir?”

“Ya,” he said. “A gold locket. Very antiquely looking. They’ve been on every one of these broads.” He leaned back into his chair. With his hands, he went into detail about the curvature of the jewelry.

Numbness mixed with nausea spread through me like a slow fire, the kind that smolders and burns below the surface, impossible to extinguish.

“Would you care for dessert,” Jack’s voice interrupted my eavesdropping. He was sitting back down in his chair. “Or should we grab the check and take a stroll?”

I knew he was studying me again but I couldn’t look up.

My motions came in waves: the overturned goblet of wine; the pale red stain seeping across the tablecloth; my cold fingers touching the gold necklace that dangled at my throat.